


Potential

by Sys



Category: Inspector Lynley Mysteries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: Just another "post canon" story... a thing or two may have changed since we last met our duo... another thing or two may change during the course of the story...





	Potential

He’s maudlin. It’s that simple. The reasons for it though, aren’t as simple. The case certainly plays into it. Those bloody nightmares, too. But maybe it’s also sitting in the darkening twilight without any lights on. Or brooding about things past. It could be that blasted glass of whiskey he’s been nursing since he got home. Perhaps Dire Straits aren’t the best musical companions for a night in late autumn? _Romeo and Juliet_. A disgusted huff doesn’t change the fact that he likes the song. Maybe it’s _his_ “Juliet”... the woman who used to be his Sergeant, once upon a time. 

But someone that capable ought to be promoted. It’s only fair, after all those years of being held back by top brass. He’s not sure why she’s the one who got Winston, but that’s unfair to Evelyn. A very promising young DS, all things considered. But not Barbara Havers. Not by a very long shot...

When his phone rings he almost drops his drink. 

“Hey, I’m at Tesco, can you check the fridge?”

There’s no way he’s gonna get used to calls like that. 

“Err... sure.” Setting aside his glass he pads over to the fridge. “Eggs and milk?”

“Got those. Anything else?”

He closes the fridge, switches on the lights, and checks the cupboard. “Toast? Sugar, maybe.” 

She hums a confirmation. “Bathroom?” 

He bites his tongue to stop himself from telling her that she’s excellent at taking notes and that she’s managed to live by herself for almost a decade. Not that her parents would have been any help before that point. “Are you sure you aren’t just bored?”

“You’ve been drinking... “ Her tone sounds neutral, but it’s not a question either. Nor is it a proper reaction to _his_ question. “Still no new leads?”

“No.” 

“I’ll be home in ten, twenty if traffic’s rubbish.”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Fish and chips?”

He sighs. Why bother asking if she’d never take that question seriously? Or rather, if she’d always just eat the same five things if he didn’t do anything about it. Really could’ve peeled the potatoes at least. Most foods she likes for dinner are potato based. And with her continued refusal to eat out at a proper place more than once per month and his dislike for eating take out when they’re both home for dinner... but there’s no telling if they both really will make it home until she calls -or he does when he’s the one getting home later-.

When he hears her key he’s got the potatoes in the oven and the fish seasoned. Not that there’s much hope she’ll taste it beneath the ketchup. But living together is all about compromises. Particularly living together with _this_ particular woman.

“Rosemary?”

“Yeah.”

“Baked potatoes then.” 

She doesn’t sound surprised. Sets down a package of frozen spinach beside him before she starts unloading the rest of her bags. He tries _not_ to focus on the sheer amount of baked beans she’s bought as if to spite him. At least she eats vegetables on a regular basis nowadays. But the sheer amount of times they could have English breakfast with those beans... not that they will. It’s what she’ll have when she’s not in the mood for toast and jam -or take out- and he’s working out of town. Or late. Probably beats a diet based on burgers, fish and chips though.

“There are meals beside beans on toast...”

The look he receives almost reminds him of the good old days. 

“At least I’m not drowning my...” She stops, but it’s there anyway. It’s not something they really talk about, drinking. She’ll tolerate it unless he gets drunk. Or considers driving... they’ve established that much before. Time to focus on the spinach, before he gets the fish fried... if there’s any hope at all that they’ll have all parts of their meal warm at the same time.

“I just worry about you,” she offers, when she returns from putting away some stuff in the bathroom. 

“Oh and I don’t?”

“That’s not what I said.”

He turns at the tone of her voice and sees the tears just before she turns away. Everything in the way she stiffens says not to bother her right now. So he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. And he doesn’t offer her his handkerchief. Certainly doesn’t risk drawing her into his arms. She’s got stressful days, too. Bad cases. Hears her fair share of crude, sometimes cruel remarks. Haunting memories. Haunting... suspicion dawns, but there’s nothing to be done, for now. Definitely a good night to get some hot chocolate into her later, though.

Careful not to acknowledge her state, he sets the table and pours them that weirdly tasty brand of grape juice she picked up the other day. She sits without prompting and they eat in silence. Eat, that is, until _Brothers in Arms_ comes up and she drops her fork. Definitely haunting. He switches off the music and she looks up at him, her eyes unreadable. Just because he mixes up the birthday and... doesn’t mean he has no clue how much it still gets to her. Thinking of what might have been. Not that she’d tell him like normal people might.

“Sorry.” She gestures to the half-eaten plate and leaves for her bedroom. 

He’s not really hungry anymore, either. But he remains seated, trying to finish at least most of his meal. There’s no clear way to tell when he can knock. It’s pointless before he’s cleared the table and brewed their chocolate. He couldn’t knock to offer her a hug. Neither of them would be comfortable acknowledging that he’ll give her one, later. Doing’s easier than talking, sometimes.

The chocolate in tow he knocks and is allowed inside. Waits for the short nod to close the door and sit beside her. There’s no need to talk while you have chocolate. And there’s no need to talk when the empty mugs rest on her bedside table and he rests tentative fingers on her shoulder. Waits for that short initial stiffening to cease. And strokes her back, gently, before he draws her close.


End file.
